


Ripples

by highfunctioningsarcastic



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tewksbury-centric, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highfunctioningsarcastic/pseuds/highfunctioningsarcastic
Summary: Two dawns after his grandmother’s betrayal, Tewkesbury prepares to cast his first vote as a member of the House of Lords. One morning to say goodbye to Enola and ensure that his grandmother has someone he trusts to watch her, the rest of the day to travel to London, an evening to try to explain to his mother everything that’s happened in the week since he left, and another morning to spend getting ready.Enola and Tewkesbury, through the years.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 34
Kudos: 208





	1. Prologue

Two dawns after his grandmother’s betrayal, Tewkesbury prepares to cast his first vote as a member of the House of Lords. One morning to say goodbye to Enola and ensure that his grandmother has someone he trusts to watch her, the rest of the day to travel to London, an evening to try to explain to his mother everything that’s happened in the week since he left, and another morning to spend getting ready. 

They arrive at the House of Lords with just over an hour to spare before the vote.

‘I look fine,’ he says. His mother nods, distractedly, still fixing his hair.

‘Don’t fuss over him, Caroline,’ his uncle says, and Tewkesbury does his best to convey that he doesn’t mind much; he’s happy that he’s still here for his mother to fuss over, but to a point.

‘Please, Mother, I am trying to have these men’s respect,’ he says, and he means it. He may be not quite eighteen, but it was senseless for his uncle to take his place for a single vote when he is quite sure his opinion will not change in a mere matter of weeks. ‘It’s quite the style, you know.’

‘Yes, I suppose it sets off your face quite nicely,’ his mother says, standing back. He can tell that she mourns his hair mostly because he is growing up, or perhaps because he looks so much like his father. The pride in his mother’s face is mirrored in his uncle’s, who clears his throat abruptly.

‘Your father would be very proud of you,’ his uncle says, and Tewkesbury has to blink away sudden tears of his own. A pair of lords pass near behind him, and he ducks his head under the pretense of looking at them. When he turns to face his mother and uncle again, a passerby stopped in the street catches his eye. _It can’t be her_ , he thinks, but it is. His mother and uncle follow his gaze, but he is already swiftly walking toward the gate.

Enola smiles and makes her way toward him as well. ‘Congratulations,’ she says, a hint of teasing in her voice, ‘you finally look like the nincompoop you were born to be.’ He laughs softly. ‘No, you look good. This is...good.’ He’s never seen her tongue-tied before, but there is a first time for everything.

‘The vote is in an hour. It’s quite the thing.’ _Is she as nervous as I am?_ They are still learning how to do this, he and Enola, how to talk to one another when they aren’t saving each other or nearly dying. A curly wisp of Enola’s hair is blowing in the wind, and he wishes he could tuck it behind her ear. If not for the bars that separate them, and propriety, he would.

‘I’m not supposed to bow or anything, am I?’ Enola says suddenly, a look of consternation on her face. ‘Now you are whatever you are?’

‘Well, arguably, you always had to bow.” _But you never were conventional, and that’s what I like about you._ ‘You just chose not to.’ _Thank goodness._ Enola smiles, and Tewkesbury smiles back at her brilliantly. She laughs, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear, and Tewkesbury feels protective, suddenly. ‘So you’re safe? Are--are you comfortable? I mean, you’re not still living in that terrible lodgings-house, are you?’

‘No--no,’ she says, nearly interrupting him, ‘I took the reward money your mother gave me--’

‘--which you reluctantly took--’

‘--and found somewhere new,’ Enola finishes, smiling slightly. It occurs to him that this could be the last time he sees her for a very long time, if not forever.

‘Well, Mother has said that there’s always room for you with us.’

‘Your mother clearly hasn’t spent enough time with me.’ Her tone is still light, still playful.

‘And what if it was I that asked you to stay?’ Enola stares at him with her mouth frozen in a soft ‘oh’; Tewkesbury has rendered her speechless for the second time within the span of one conversation.

‘A kind offer, but one I must refuse,’ she says, looking uncomfortable, and he curses himself for running things so terribly. He’s ruined everything, he thinks, as they stand there not looking at each other, silent. After a moment, Enola puts her hand over his on the cold iron bar, and he looks up at her face.

‘How will I--when will I see you again?’ Tewkesbury asks, searching her face. He curses the tremor in his voice, but he needs to _know_ that this is not the end. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to walk away from this gate until he knows it isn’t. Enola looks up at him, a measure of her usual vivacity in her face.

‘You’re not rid of me yet, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether,’ she says, and he realizes that he might want to kiss her. She’d hardly welcome it, of course, and there are iron bars and society and their visibility to think of, so he takes the hand she placed on his and kisses that instead. She seems overcome with emotion as she smiles slightly, withdraws her hand, and walks away, looking back at him. _Of course, I’ll see you again._

Tewkesbury makes his way back to his mother and uncle, who nearly says something before thinking better of it. After donning his hat, Uncle Whimbrel clears his throat again.

‘Are you ready, my boy?’ Tewkesbury nods, and they accompany him to the entrance to the House of Lords, but no further. HE takes his seat in a room slowly filling with men at least twenty years his senior, most of whom stop to murmur something sympathetic about his father or something congratulatory on assuming his seat. The Leader calls for everyone to take their seats, and Tewkesbury allows his eyes to wander the dark, wood-panelled room, careful not to look like a starstruck child.

As he casts his vote, he is sure of two things: that, as his uncle says, his father would be proud of him, and that he is doing the right thing. The bill passes, and the session is adjourned in mid-afternoon. He half-expects Enola to be at the gate, but she is not among the cheering crowds. _Of course she isn’t._ When he asked her to stay, she said she would not. He knows that she did not lie in saying he was not rid of her, that he will see her again. All he can do is hope that they will meet again soon.


	2. August to mid-November, 1884

After the vote is final, his bags repacked, and most of the town residence shut up for the fall, he returns to Basilwether. To his surprise, however irrational, there are still shards of marble and shattered illusions lingering in the entrance hall, and the cuts on his throat throb. His mother pales and stammers, and he shakes his head.

‘It’s alright, Mother,’ he says gently. ‘I’m going upstairs to change, and then I can clean this up.’ She nods, mutely, a sign of how things have changed.

His uncle has remained in London, and Tewkesbury is the head of the household now. There are a hundred things he must know and remember and do to make the estate function properly, and he has precious little time to learn how to do it. Enola would be a distraction.  _ A welcome distraction, perhaps, but this is a role you must learn _ . Picking up chunks of marble, he remembers that he never asked for her new address in London. ‘Somewhere new,’ she said, and he didn’t question it, but now he cannot find her.  _ Why didn’t I ask for her address? _

‘Dinner is ready,’ his mother is standing in a doorway at the end of the hall. She looks at him more closely. ‘Are you alright?’ He swipes at his sudden tears and smiles bravely.

‘Of course I am.’

‘Perhaps, over dinner, you can tell me about her? Enola, I mean.’

‘I would like that.’ Tewkesbury offers his mother his arm, and they walk to the dining room together. 

‘So,’ his mother says. ‘Enola is related to the famous detective?’ He nods. ‘And how did you come to meet her? I had never heard that he had any sister before.’

‘Well,’ Tewkesbury begins, ‘she was running away from her brothers beginning at the same train station I ran away from, and she sat down in my compartment….’ 

Over the course of dinner, he relates as much of the tale as he knows or can be reasonably sure of. His mother listens and watches his face as he speaks of Enola intently.

‘You must care about her,’ his mother says when he has finished and pudding has been served.

‘I do. We’ve saved one another a half-dozen times, and however pathetic it sounds, I think she is my closest friend.’

‘I would hardly think to call the admission of a good friendship pathetic.’ Tewkesbury nods and smiles at his mother, but he misses Enola’s friendly jabs and matter-of-fact way of speaking more than he cares to let on.

Learning how to manage the care and keeping of Basilwether Hall consumes much of the next six weeks as the leaves grow more colorful and the days shorter and cooler. He is grateful to his mother and, eventually, his uncle, for their help, but he writes down specifics he’s worried he’ll forget in a small notebook that he carries around at all times. Some days, he feels he hardly has time to miss Enola, but the memory of her always takes him by surprise, hits him like a blow, whenever he must venture to the entrance hall.

‘Have you been avoiding the front of the hall intentionally, my boy?’ His uncle poses the question casually, one afternoon, and Tewkesbury nearly jumps out of his chair. It’s a fair question, however he hates to admit it, and he does his best to regain his composure.

‘No! No, why do you ask?’

‘Because you nearly always go upstairs, through the private parlor, and then down the stairs again instead of just walking through it when you need to go between the public parlor and the kitchen. It’s such a way out of the normal way that I thought I might ask.’

‘Did Mother ask you to talk to me?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I suppose I can make a conscious effort to avoid the entrance hall less. If Mother agrees, I’d also like to make some changes to how we’ve left it decorated. A shattered suit of armor isn’t quite the style this year, at least from what I’ve heard.’ Relief is evident in his uncle’s face. 

The days bleed together, and he does his best to remember Enola, fondly, and not his grandmother, when he uses the entrance hall.

One evening in late September, his mother finds him doing nothing but sitting and watching the falling rain and asks him what the matter is. He isn’t quite sure himself; it isn’t like him to be idle for any amount of time, even on a rainy fall evening.

‘I miss Enola, I suppose. She took up such space in my life, for however short a time, and I haven’t seen her in nearly two months.’ His mother nods.

‘Perhaps you could write her a letter? Let her know what you’ve been up to and ask her how she is. At the least, it will tell her that you wish to remain in contact.’

He has written almost four pages before he remembers that he still doesn’t have Enola’s address, and that he cannot go to London himself to find her, as he might have if the estate did not need so much oversight. His mother would tell him to go, but he has taken his seat in the House of Lords and could not justify the journey without first knowing how long it might take.  _ Knowing Enola, it might take weeks or even months. And, if I went, I could not return to Basilwether without finding her. _ So he stays.

While he knows he has no way to send Enola the letters he writes, he writes her nearly every week for the rest of the autumn. He writes about the glory of the fall leaves on the estate, the greenhouses’ abundance of out-of-season flowers, the cake their cook made for his birthday. He writes about how he thinks she might like to learn embroidery, if only for its message-hiding capabilities, even though it may be difficult. He asks if her boarding house is still comfortable, what she thought of the results of Sherlock’s latest, highly covered case. 

The first frost is exquisitely beautiful, and Tewkesbury wishes he possessed the skill to sketch it and the means to send it to Enola, for he’s certain that they have nothing like it in the city. He telegraphs his uncle, in London for a week on business, to ask Sherlock if he has an address for the detective’s younger sister. His uncle returns before the letter arrives at the town residence, and Tewkesbury resigns himself to spending a page describing how the frosty, silvered flowers looked in that week’s unsent letter.

The next two weeks are filled with learning to turn over care of the hall to a steward for the next seven months, and more if the House of Lords is locked in a debate he cannot leave.  _ Why keep two houses if I can only spend the autumn in the country? _ It will be frustrating to spend a spring away from gardens dear to him since childhood, but his uncle speaks of duty and his mother of weekend visits, and he thinks that it may not be as harsh a removal as he fears.

He doesn’t know how he feels about returning to London for the winter or the way his mother watches him sometimes closely and sometimes knowingly through the end of autumn whenever he mentions Enola’s name.  _ We are but friends who have shared an astonishing number of near-death experiences _ , he wishes to say, but somehow, the words are locked in his chain-scarred throat.

Least of all can Tewkesbury speak to how he feels about Enola by the time they leave Basilwether for the season, but, when asked, he admits that he hopes he may see her in London.


	3. November 15 1884

When Tewkesbury returns to London in mid-November, the town is buzzing with the mounting success of another private detective named Holmes. There’s a hat box with a dozen unsent letters in the corner of his trunk and a fading scar on his throat and his mother and uncle facing him in the carriage as they rattle toward town.

‘Will you call on Miss Holmes, do you think?’ 

‘I don’t know when I’ll have time, in truth,’ Tewkesbury replies. ‘I don’t know how much time Parliament requires, let alone where she took up residence last August.’

‘No matter, my boy,’ his uncle says. ‘You’ll have plenty to keep you busy. It’s possible she may attend one of the season’s opening balls, or that Mr Holmes may attend and you can ask after her.’ Tewkesbury nods.

‘You sent ahead for them to prepare rooms, Whimbrel?’ His mother turns to his uncle, and Tewkesbury turns to the window. It is not that he is apprehensive about seeing Enola again, though he is, but Enola is not available to those by whom she does not want to be found. They have not spoken in months, and he knows not how she regards him.  _ She wanted to miss you, the last time you were parted, but that’s not the same thing as  _ missing _. She could’ve just been relieved to see a familiar face at Miss Harrison’s, after the ordeal she went through there…. _

Tewkesbury does his best to consider every way Enola might regard him the next time they meet before they arrive in London. The days following are a flurry of unpacking, and he does not steal the time to look for Enola or go to Sherlock’s already infamous abode on Baker Street and ask after her. He doesn’t wish to be a bother, and his mother and uncle are intent that he learns everything about establishing the residence in town for the season.

He has not seen Enola in nearly five months, and he has been in London a week before he sees her again. As his uncle predicted, she has attended a ball on Sherlock’s arm. While Enola may dislike what she calls ‘conventional society’, she wears the cornflower-blue dress of a society lady wonderfully well. Tewkesbury straightens his collar, tucks hair behind one ear and takes a deep breath.

‘Miss Holmes,’ he says, crossing the ballroom to greet her, and her face lights up when she turns and sees that it is him. At least, he believes it does. 

‘Viscount Tewkesbury,’ Enola replies, dropping a quick curtsy.

‘You…. you look lovely.’

‘And you look as much like the nincompoop you were born to be as ever,’ she returns after a moment of surprised silence. He laughs, and their conversation lapses. Enola looks at the portrait of a dead queen on the wall behind him, and he counts the candles on the chandelier overhead. His mother comes up beside him and smiles warmly at Enola.

‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend, dear?’ She asks the question softly, but her eyes are distant.

‘Of course. Mother, this is Miss Enola Holmes. Enola, this is my mother, the younger dowager.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Holmes,’ his mother says. ‘Have you been well since we saw you in July?’

‘Yes, quite well, thank you.’ Enola looks uncomfortable. ‘I hope you have both been well also?’

‘Yes, thank you. Have you been in London all autumn, or did you return to Ferndell?’ Tewkesbury belatedly remembers that he never explained how Enola’s relationship with her brothers was left off, and winces.

‘Oh, no, I spent all of autumn in London. Sherlock did visit Ferndell briefly last month, but I haven’t been home since July.’ Enola doesn’t look nearly as uncomfortable as Tewkesbury feels, which is small comfort. Tewkesbury’s mother nods and smoothes her skirt.

‘It has been a pleasure, Enola, but I believe I see a friend of mine, near the refreshments. I’ll see you at dinner, perhaps?’ Tewkesbury nods and Enola smiles, and they stand there looking at each other.

‘I wrote you,’ he says, because it is suddenly important that she knows. ‘I wrote you letters while I was at Basilwether.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get them,’ Enola says.

‘Oh — I didn’t send them. I never got your address, you know, after you found somewhere new.’ A look he can’t quite place passes over Enola’s face before she laughs, suddenly, a sound like the brook at Basilwether in the spring.

‘Silly boy, writing letters you knew you wouldn’t be able to send!’

‘I suppose a man wouldn’t then, either?’ Enola bites her lip, trying not to laugh again. ‘I really think I’ve earned the right by now, I mean, it’s been months and I can nearly run the estate by myself now.’ Enola shakes her head and laughs just loudly enough that the conversations nearest them hush. London’s gossip circles are frustratingly eager for more news of the young lord who survived, and Tewkesbury knows that to see him with the girl who purportedly saved him will be the most interesting part of the next week’s talk. He doesn’t care; he’s waited to long to see her again to be thrown off by a rumour-monger or two.

‘I’ve missed you, Enola Holmes.’

‘And I, you. London has hardly been the same without a vote hanging over all our heads; it’s good you’ve come back and can begin rabble-rousing again.’ He hesitates before asking her to dance. It isn’t that he wants to, necessarily, but if the gentlefolk nearby would remember their manners and quit staring at the young lord having such a good time with Sherlock Holmes’ younger sister, he likely would not. And, all right, it’s because he’s an excellent dancer.

‘Do you care to dance, Miss Holmes?’ He raises his voice slightly so others can see that propriety, in direct defiance of the general reports about his relationship with Enola, is still being observed.

‘Are you asking me or the rest of the ballroom, Tewkesbury?’

‘Why would I ask the rest of the ballroom to dance?’ Enola concedes the point.

‘Very well. Just one dance, mind you.’

‘As you wish.’ They sail through the first bars of the waltz without incident, until Enola steps on his foot and hisses at him.

‘Don’t hold me so tightly, Tewkesbury, I don’t need that we were dancing splashed across the society page tomorrow.’

‘I’m holding you as loosely as I can if I’m to be dancing ‘with’ you and not ‘near’ you! Just try to relax.’

‘That’s easy for you to say when it’s not your career on the line if one person makes much of how long we danced for.’

‘It’s one dance, Enola.’ The music stops, and Enola steps away from him.

‘I did not come to this ball to dance, I came to investigate for the host. However, it has been nice to see you again and I will be at Baker Street tomorrow afternoon. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘Right, then.’ Enola nods and disappears into the crowd, and often as Tewkesbury finds himself looking for cornflower-blue for the rest of the evening, she is nowhere to be found. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Under the Sky of Paris' by Andre Rieu for this chapter.
> 
> Also, bonus points if you spot the reference to The Princess Bride!


	4. November 16 1884

‘It occurs to me that your given name can’t possibly be Tewkesbury, and that we’ve known one another for a truly ridiculous amount of time for me to not know what your first name is.’ Tewkesbury takes the teacup that Enola passes him gingerly and sniffs it; it turns out she’s actually quite good at making tea, but he would be lying if he hadn’t been nervous when she said she’d make the tea herself. 

‘To be fair, we knew each other for a handful of isolated days five months ago, and most of it was consumed with trying not to die, not learning one another’s given names.’ Enola’s face falls. ‘I mean, Tewkesbury is a fine name, isn’t it? For all you know, it  _ could _ be my first name. How would you feel then?’

‘Are you saying you only want to see me when we’re trying not to die? Because if so, Marquess of Bothersomeshire, I am more than capable of increasing the danger of our current situation.’

‘Please put the teapot down.’ Enola disregards his request, brandishing the pot in question even closer to his face.

‘I don’t see why I ought to listen to you, since apparently I’m only good for keeping you alive--’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ Tewkesbury’s frustration finally boils over, and he stands up quickly. Enola sets the teapot down and sits, crossing her arms. ‘I only meant that we hardly had time to know one another before I had to leave for months and months and I didn’t get to see you and there was so much I  _ wanted _ to tell you that my given name wasn’t exactly towards the top of the list…’ He stops, colouring slightly, and sits down again. Enola observes him over the rim of her tea. Tekesbury cannot see her mouth, he thinks she might be smiling, just a bit.

‘It’s nice to know when one is missed, I suppose, but you do  _ have _ a given name, don’t you?’

‘My Christian name is James, but I’d rather if you called me Tewkesbury, really, I would. My friends do, you know, and the Lords call me Basilwether.’ Enola frowns at the door behind him, but there’s no one there; she’s just lost in thought.

‘What do your mother and uncle call you? Not Tewkesbury, I hope.’

‘My mother calls me ‘son’ or ‘darling’, and my uncle usually calls me ‘my boy’. I don’t mind telling you my name, but I just don’t use it very often.’

‘As your friends call you Tewkesbury, I suppose I will do the same.’ The door behind him slams, and Tewkesbury does his best to not start. ‘Oh, Sherlock, this is Tewkesbury, the Marquess of Basilwether. Tewkesbury, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Ah,’ Sherlock looks Tewkesbury up and down in a way highly reminiscent of his old deportment instructor, the one who called him hopeless. ‘The useless boy?’ Enola goes rather red and mumbles something about someone named Edith and indiscretion. Tewkesbury smiles, and before he knows it he’s laughing at the absurdity of it all.

‘You described me as useless?’ Sherlock snorts, while Enola still looks rather flushed.

‘I might have. When my only association with you was pulling you off a train and directing us to London.’ Enola looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Tewkesbury sobers.

‘I’m not sure I’m surprised. I hadn’t been very helpful to you by that time.’

‘No. you hadn’t.’ Sherlock looks sharply between them and shrugs, nearly imperceptible from the corner of Tewkesbury’s eye.

‘Well, I told Mycroft I would meet him at the club this afternoon, and a waiting Mycroft is a frustrated Mycroft.’ Tewkesbury tore his eyes away from the curls escaping Enola’s braid to glare at Sherlock.

‘You’re not going to tell him where Enola is, are you?’ Sherlock smiles slightly, hand on the doorknob.

‘No.’ Sherlock exits, and the silence between Tewkesbury and Enola stretches achingly. Tewkesbury is perfectly content to sip his tea and contemplate how his mother will react to learning he spent an afternoon with Enola when the latter sets her teacup down with a clatter.

‘If you won’t stop looking at me like that, you may as well leave.’ His mind snaps back to the present moment to a glare sitting across from him.

‘Looking at you like what?’

‘Never mind that.’ She bites her lip and looks down at her tea, and Tewkesbury remembers that he’d meant to ask her another question while they were dancing the night before.  _ But it all ended so quickly… _

‘Why didn’t you write to me?’

‘Pardon?’ The question has been burning at Tewkesbury since almost the moment he arrived in London.  _ She knows where Basilwether Hall is; she could have written to you at any time. _

‘Is there a reason you didn’t write me letters?’ 

‘Should I have done so?’ Enola gathers up their tea things and takes them to the kitchen, so Tewkesbury follows.

‘Friends unfortunate enough to be parted often do.’

‘Then I may write to you after you return to Basilwether next summer, but that’s hardly relevant to this season.’ Enola sets down the tray and tilts her head. ‘You’ve started growing your hair out again.’

‘What of it?’

‘It was just an observation, Tewkesbury. Now, if you like, you can tell me all about learning to take care of Basilwether in the autumn, or better yet, you can give me the letters you wrote me last autumn.’

‘I haven’t brought them with me,’ Tewkesbury says, and he manages to hold Enola’s gaze through the sudden weight in his breast pocket. ‘I believe I left them at home.’ It’s the first time he’s felt the need to lie to her, but he cannot imagine letting her read the letters without rereading them himself first; he does not trust what he might have written on those lonely autumn nights.

‘Very well,’ Enola says. ‘I can read them just as well another time. Now, how were the autumn leaves, and how many pressings did you make before your uncle complained about the inaccessibility of the library books?’ 

The tension drains away after that, and it seems that they’ve talked for hours before the door opens quietly. 

‘Enola, dearie, you can’t sit up here with him without a chaperone, and when it’s getting so dark outside too. What will people say of you?’ Enola smiles at Tewkesbury before turning to who must be Sherlock’s housekeeper.

‘Tewkesbury, this is Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady. Mrs. Hudson, this is Tewkesbury.’ He stands and nods.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson, but I was just leaving.’ Enola nods.

‘He was. Really. It’s been nice, seeing you again.’ She pauses. ‘I’m glad you’re back in London.’ They smile at each other, still conscious of Mrs. Hudson’s bemused gaze

‘Will I see you again soon?’

‘I doubt it. I anticipate being called to Yorkshire to investigate a disappearance at any moment. Lestrade is there already, and he’s promised to ask me to come before Sherlock.’

‘You’re a busy woman, Enola Holmes,” Tewkesbury says, and she nods. ‘But I can wait.’ Her mouth falls open, and he notes with satisfaction that he’s rendered her speechless yet again.


	5. early December, 1884

True to her word, Tewkesbury does not see Enola for some days. A note informing him that he may send her letters at Sherlock’s address is pushed under the front door the morning after they take tea together, and Tewkesbury resigns himself to leaving notes that tell her nothing he truly wishes to say.

‘Another note for Enola, dearie?’ Mrs Hudson greets him at the door several weeks later on an afternoon waffling between rain and snow that’s altogether rather miserable. ‘She’s left one for you this time, too. She was in for breakfast just this morning.’ Tewkesbury feels as though he’s just been yanked off a train; the bottom drops out of the stomach just the way it did rolling down the bank toward the river.

‘This morning?’

‘Oh yes, she was back from Yorkshire at the strangest hour yesterday evening. Sherlock was beside himself that she didn’t tell him so he could escort her from the station. It was nearly midnight, you know, but he was still awake and in one of his moods…’

‘Did she say when she would be back?’ 

‘No, she didn’t. Rather a family trait, I’m afraid, Sherlock’s gone all the time and I’d hardly have to keep house if it weren’t for John, though he’s gone this whole week, too.’ The skies choose rain at that moment. ‘Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea? You’ll be soaked to the skin in no time in this mess.’ He accepts gratefully and follows Mrs Hudson upstairs. ‘Now just sit here while I put a bit of tea on. How did you meet Enola, dearie?’ A distant door slams. 

‘She saved my life when I ran away from home over the summer.’

‘I should have known it would be something like that,’ Mrs Hudson says, patting him and setting out the tea service. ‘The Holmes siblings are always getting into scrapes they might be better off out of, though I’m sure you’re an exception.’

‘I think the jury’s still out on that, Mrs Hudson,’ Sherlock retorts, striding into the room. With a leap of his heart, Tewkesbury realizes Enola is with him and hurriedly stands up. 

‘You’re back,’ Tewkesbury says to Enola.

‘Is there enough tea for Enola and I?’ Sherlock asks Mrs Hudson, puttering about the stove while she tries to shoo him away.

‘You’re here,’ Enola shoots back, obviously startled.

‘You know there’s always enough tea for everyone in my kitchen, Sherlock,’ Mrs Hudson says, pouring out another pair of cups. Enola and Sherlock take their seats, somewhat awkwardly, and Tewkesbury casts about for something to say.

‘Was your trip nice?’

“My...trip?’ Enola looks rather taken aback at being singled out. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock exchange a glance that would’ve been over their heads if they were a year or two shorter.

‘I’ve work to attend to upstairs,’ Sherlock says. ‘I only came to see if a cup of tea could be had after that storm. So it can be.’ He brandishes the cup and goes up another flight to where the rooms he shares with Dr Watson are.

‘I really must mop up the entryway before the water sets anymore,’ Mrs Hudson flutters. ‘Not that I blame you or Sherlock, dear, but I’ve just had the stairs recarpeted. I do dote on you both, but I rather like this pattern.’

‘It’s no worry at all, Mrs Hudson,’ Enola says warmly. Tewkesbury has always considered Enola beautiful, even in breeches, but there’s something about her still-damp curls and how kind she is to Mrs Hudson and the way she cradles her cup of tea that makes him want to tell her so.

‘Enola…’ He begins after Mrs Hudson can be heard downstairs, but Enola forges ahead as though she’s read his mind and doesn’t want to be burdened with the sentiment. 

‘My business in Yorkshire was as nice as could be expected for this time of year,’ she says hurriedly. ‘It was snowy, of course, but not so much that his footsteps weren’t visible the next morning.’

‘What sort of case was it?’

‘Arson. His brother had eloped with his sweetheart, and he was doing his best to burn every home they settled together…’ Her voice falters, recognizing the thin ice she skates on. ‘All’s well that ends well, of course.’

‘Of course. Are you comfortably settled in town for the winter?’ 

‘I am. My boarding-house is as cozy as I could wish for, and the landlady is a reasonable sort. She doesn’t mind my keeping odd hours--I couldn’t help that, after all--but she’s quite respectable otherwise.’

‘Too respectable to allow gentleman callers without a chaperone?’ Enola laughs, and the desire to tell her she’s lovely comes over Tewkesbury again.  _ She wouldn’t appreciate it, you podge, and you’re both years too young for that, anyway. _

‘I haven’t tried her, though I'll admit that’s why I had you send notes here, if you wanted to send them.’

‘Ah.’ 

Enola smiles uncomfortably and looks down at her tea. ‘I actually spent this morning beginning research for another case,’ she says after a moment. ‘I wondered if you could help.’

‘I’m not a complete idiot, but I’m sure I’m nothing on the great detective you are,’ he returns. 

‘You know several members of the House of Lords, and you’re more familiar with floriography than I am. What do you know of Lord Weatherton?’

‘He’s lately married to a wife half his age.’

‘How familiar is he with floriography? Do the lords talk about that sort of thing during their breaks? I imagine he might, given the chance. Talkative fellow, except where his wife is concerned. To the point, how does he feel about her family?’ 

‘They didn’t approve of his marrying Rochelle; he’s nearly forty to her twenty, and they’d hoped she make a richer match. Her father’s an earl, you know, but I’ve got the impression that they’re quite bankrupt, and Weatherton is in no position to help them. He’s talked about herbs with me a time or two, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were familiar with floriography as well.’ Enola’s eyes sparkle.

‘So it  _ is  _ him. Her mother’s ill, and she  _ loves _ flowers, and she got dead chrysanthemums the other day and….do you know if Rochelle is all right?’

Tewkesbury’s tea is going cold, but he doesn’t care. This is what he has missed: bits of clues flying together until the answer is obvious. ‘I believe Lady Weatherton is, um, she’s…’ He knows he’s going red, but he can’t help it. Enola’s eyes narrow.

‘She’s what? Don’t be a nincompoop, Tewkesbury.’

‘I believe she’s, ah, expecting.’ Tewkesbury looks out the window to hide his burning cheeks, missing Enola’s small, understanding noise. ‘Night comes so early in the winter, even in London..’

‘I ought to be going home,’ Enola remarks, and his heart jumps.

‘May I...may I see you home?’ After a moment of frowning consideration, she nods..

‘I’ll ask Sherlock for an umbrella. I expect it’s still raining.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Yes, Bothersomeshire, one. I’ll be back in a moment.’ Tewkesbury waits until her footsteps have faded to let his smile bloom across his face.

**Author's Note:**

> This prologue/first chapter is heavily reliant on the movie, as you can probably tell. 
> 
> I'm building a playlist for this fic, and the first song is "Water Ripples" by Enno Aare, which was introduced to me by Louis Partridge who played it on his story the other day, and from which this tale takes its name.


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